


The Natural Consequences of Freddie Mercury

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canonical Drug Use, Flash Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 01:13:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18377915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: flash fic from 2019 221B Con. The prompts: Sherlock, Greg, Mrs. Hudson's car, hidden tattoos, blow jobs.





	The Natural Consequences of Freddie Mercury

The lanky young man rolled his eyes. “You don’t believe me,” he drawled.

“You’re high off your tits, driving a car you admit isn’t yours, and you can’t even tell me your bloody name. No, I don’t believe you.” Greg cleared his throat. “Not that it matters--”

“Fine, I’ll prove it.” The young man lounged back against the hood of the Aston Martin. “You’re in your second year on the Force, still eager to fight the good fight no matter the circumstances. You recently married your high school sweetheart, a boring woman who will no doubt cheat on you within the year. She doesn’t know you’re bisexual and will surprise you with the depth of her homophobia when she first finds out you accept blow jobs from strange men.” He slid to his knees and twisted his face into a perfect pout.

Greg nearly choked on his tongue. “How--”

“The Freddie Mercury tattoo on your ankle.”

Greg looked down at his feet. Then had to focus on the nearest streetlight for several moments until the image of the youth’s parted lips faded from the forefront of his mind. “There’s no way you can see my ankles,” Greg countered. “Even while kneeling.” Something else was important from that statement… _Oh!_ “And nobody said anything about blow jobs,” he added.

“I did. And I did tell you my name - you assumed I was lying. It really is Sherlock.” The man - Sherlock - reached for Greg’s hips and maneuvered him into position. Greg’s brain must have gone completely walkabout, because his feet shuffled him forward entirely without permission. Sherlock took that as assent and leaned forward to press his nose against what Greg had to admit was a very persistent and noticeable erection. “God, I’ve wanted to do this since I saw you smoking outside the Yard last week. In trousers which are two centimeters too short, I will add.” He reached for Greg’s zip. “You don’t mind, do you?”

There was very little _mind_ of any sort left in Greg’s head. The one on his shoulders, anyway. The one Sherlock was mouthing at was very much in favor. Still, though. _High as a fucking kite._ Greg pushed the young man away. “I do, actually,” he said firmly.

Sherlock sat back on his heels and gaped at him. “Why?” He stared at Greg’s face in slack-jawed amazement. “You’re attracted to me, obviously.”

“Don’t need your fancy deductions for that,” Greg admitted. “Not going to take advantage of you, though. You’re high and I’m on shift.”

“Fine.” Sherlock stood and backed away. “Come to my flat when you’re done.”

“Oi! I’m still taking you in--”

“No you’re not. Not if you want the best damn orgasm you’ll ever experience. Montegue Street - I’ll wait up.” And he dashed away before Greg could get his feet moving again. Leaving Greg with a million-pound car, a raging boner, and _way_ too many questions.

_Fucking hell._


End file.
